GoW Alphabet
by AuronKae
Summary: A series of oneshots following the ABCs. Meant as a writing exercise.
1. Acceptance

**A/N: This began as a writing exercise, and I don't know if I'll finish it or not. This is just a way for me to keep my mind sharp while I'm writing.**

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**A  
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**.acceptance**

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Night was just another stage of the day. It stretched on and on, bringing with it its own unique dangers. It wasn't _comforting,_ because with every night there would always be a tomorrow. And the day after that, and the day after that…

For once, night on Sera wasn't dominated by the shrill shrieks of the kryll, and Marcus Fenix was unnerved. His body had taken such a beating in the last few days that his mind had detached from the pain… or maybe it was the morphine in his bloodstream, taking the edge off for him so he could sleep easier. He'd refused to be knocked out by the drug, as did the other surviving members of Delta Squad, and he could sense that they too were awake in the unnatural stillness that pervaded the hospital's semi-white hallways.

They were each listening for something that wasn't there.

Marcus didn't dare to hope that the Lightmass Bomb had actually worked—if it had, he'd celebrate when the last Locust was dead under his feet. Until then, he _had_ to be alert, and he _had _to be steady.

He wondered how long it'd been since he was in that dingy jail cell. One day, two, three? It felt like somebody else's life right then, because this could have easily been just a point in time just before his court-martial. In the hospital with is squad, getting treated for whatever injury they'd managed to sustain _this_ time…

Cole's light snore eased its way into the backdrop of noise, unexplainably comforting. He didn't know if he'd ever be able to sleep without the backdrop of kryll screams, or if he'd ever be able to turn off the light at night. Even now, the hospital's lights were on. They ran on some sort of solar power that had been installed before E-Day and had somehow survived all this time.

Marcus couldn't sleep. Even with the morphine dulling his senses, the adrenaline was still pumping through his system and for once he couldn't turn it off. His body, acclimatizing to the sudden changes that had been made, was telling him that he should be _fighting._ He should be hiding under cover, shooting at grubs, or maybe walking through a Stranded camp, desperate for light.

It was a _fight or flight_ response that made his pulse quicken, his trigger-finger itch. He couldn't calm down, and he knew that it wasn't his instincts telling him there was trouble. It was a mental thing.

_Just go to sleep, bro,_ Dom said. _We need it._

Marcus opened his eyes to the bright light, looking over at the hospital bed beside him. Dom looked smaller without his armor, dressed in only a hospital gown. He'd gone into the OR the same time Marcus did and for the same reason—the treatment of the wounds they'd sustained in their final, desperate stand on the train.

The _train._

Even thinking about it caused Marcus's heart to speed up.

Everything that had happened since his breakout, every little drop of sweat and blood, had climaxed on the train ride to Hell. The Berserker—easy. The Wretches had been a bit harder, the Reavers doubly so. When the Wretches decided to play with the train's power, any doubts of them being stupid, mindless creatures had left his mind. But it was RAAM that had freaked him out. It was RAAM who'd scared him shitless.

He was tougher than the Berserker, tougher than the Corpser, tougher than _anything_ Marcus Fenix had faced in his life. It was only pure luck that they managed to kill him.

Pure fucking luck.

Baird's own light snore accompanied Cole's.

Dom moved slightly, moving his left shoulder a bit experimentally. His eyes were still closed, but Marcus knew he was awake… and if he knew his friend as well as he thought he still did, he knew Dom would be having the same problems he was.

Fuck, he _hurt._ All fucking over. Every tip, every fall, every roll, every hit seemed to be catching up with him. He groaned a little in the back of his throat, a reflex, and Dom moved a bit more on his cot.

He closed his eyes, turning over to lay on his stomach and to block out the light. The screeching of the kryll was in his mind this time, and he could still feel the movement of the train underneath him…

He was half-asleep when he heard, very softly, "Yo, Marcus."

"Hmm?"

"Your ass is showing."

Marcus froze, turning his head on his pillow to glare at Dom. His eyes were still closed, his head facing the opposite direction, but there was a sly grin on his face. Muttering soundless curses to himself, Marcus pulled the drawstring on his back shut and took the unused blankets set out for him and placed them over himself.

Not because he was afraid of Dom's teasing, but Baird and Cole had already proved more than once that they were very, very skilled at pissing him off in less than two minutes. He didn't want to give them another thing to rant on about.

Still, though, even that short exchange helped, just a little bit. It broke him free from his thoughts, allowing the snores of his companions to bring him into a deep, coma-like sleep. He had to accept the near-death experiences as a part of life. He _had_ to.


	2. Backbone

A/N: Not as long as my other one, but it was fun. I had a good time trying to imagine Hoffman doing desk-duty, and I got a bit carried away. Enjoy. :)

**B**

**.backbone**

Victor Hoffman leaned back, relieving his aching lower back from the stress he'd put on it doubled over at his desk, frantically trying to finish a report on the Lightmass Bomb. Having already been debriefed by Prescott in person, it was with ill grace that he filed Delta Squad's report _for_ them—even though they deserved sleep more than he did.

He rubbed his face, which had set into a frozen numbness. Writing one report was codswallop enough, but Fenix had been fucking _busy._ From Alpha's rescue to the Fenix Estate to that fucking _train_, Hoffman had his hands full.

He didn't regret writing them. He just regretted sending them on such a long goddamn goose chase. And Fenix…

Fenix had given his two-hundred-percent. As always.

Hoffman didn't allow himself to dwell on the man's earlier… _predicament._ If it had been any one of his soldiers, even Santiago (and it was, from the look of things on the train), Hoffman would've recommended them for the Embry Star. It had been with mixed feelings when he took Fenix into the Raven to say, "Good job."

_Fuck it. I'm never going to see him as anything more than Locust food, am I?_

Hoffman didn't even know what Fenix _felt_ about the entire thing. Probably pissed to the Nine Hells and back, because _he_ would be. But the Gear never showed it, and all that rage and piss and anger he _had_ to have been feeling was locked under a smooth, glacial calm.

_I wasn't expecting prison to have made him mellower. Hell, not even _I _know what went on in there._

Privately, he didn't want to.

Santiago was worse. After he'd sentenced his best friend to die in the Slab, the kid could hardly look at him. Hoffman had seen him when he'd lost his brother Carlos in the last war, and losing Fenix seemed to do the same thing to him. He'd gotten loud, making as much noise as he could to any politician he could find to _get Marcus out._

Hoffman could still remember the fated words that had shocked him and everybody around him in Control: "Let them out—Fenix? No, he can rot for all I care."

He could remember when he'd gotten the call to say Santiago was _missing._ Hoffman had sent a Raven loaded with Kim and Carmine to help out their comrade, because Santiago was a fucking good soldier, but he and his buddy had already taken out the Locusts in their way to the chopper.

Would Hoffman have done the same thing if he was in Santiago's shoes? He'd like to think he would.

_Do it for Santiago, _he thought.

Colonel Hoffman leaned over the desk again and began writing a separate letter to Chairman Prescott, recommending all of Delta Squad for the Embry Star. _…for their extraordinary handling of the Lightmass Bombing, and for perseverance, backbone, and for every grub they killed on their journey there._

Hoffman stopped. That sounded a bit too polite regarding recent events. He took out another paper and began again at the risk of sounding like the asshole he was.

_Firmly suggesting that you award Dominic Santiago, Marcus Fenix, Damon Baird, Augustus Cole, and Minh Young Kim the Embry Star; because they're goddamn heroes. _


	3. Constipation

A/N: Everybody, thanks for the favs! I'm hoping to get a chapter done a day (because I luv challenging myself) but I don't know if I can continue with the move coming up. I'll run myself into the ground trying, though. ^_^

On to Chapter 3…

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**C**

**.constipation**

_The Junker_

The compartment was pretty snug, and not in a good way. Dom found himself switching around every few minutes or so to find a better purchase on the rickety chair attached to the UV light. He'd gotten _very_ familiar with its inner mechanics not long ago on a ride through hell in the dark Stranded streets. With the kryll coming from just about every angle and Marcus driving like a maniac through deserted streets, it had taken nearly all of their cunning combined just to make it through alive.

The short, smelly, pissed-off Stranded from the gas station had been replaced with two new backseat drivers, and none of them were helping Marcus's stress levels as he drove them through the dimly-lit sections of the sprawling city. Within minutes of entering and taking the passenger's seat, Baird had turned on the radio to some sort of funky old-age jazz music. Cole and all his bulk were packed into the rear, lounging next to Dom's legs.

After a while, Marcus snorted out some air from his nose. "Great," he muttered. He never raised his voice much, and when he did all he did was turn up the volume. "I think we got a gas leak."

Baird took a careful sniff, wincing from odors Dom couldn't smell from his vantage point. "It's not methane gas," he said knowingly. "Must be a dead animal in here somewhere."

"That's only _now_ decomposing?" Marcus might've looked like a grub, but he was smart. "Try again."

"Well, try to think of when the last time somebody drove this clunker, jackass," Baird snapped back. "Maybe we jiggled something loose in a bump—how should I know?"

Cole's silent laughter vibrated Dom's seat. "Ooooh, man, I smell it!"

Baird's face was frozen in whatever expression it had been in before. When Dom glanced down between his legs, he could see his chin and beard, all dyed white from the radio's lights. Cole had a hand over his mouth to surpress the laughter. "Yeah?" Baird challenged.

"It smells like a decomposin' animal, Damon baby," Cole answered.

Dom took a chance, taking a deeper whiff of the air around him. He could smell something, faint but growing stronger, and it made his nose wrinkle. "Nah," he said. "Smells like swamp. But we ain't near a swamp, are we? Marcus?"

Cole's chuckles grew even louder.

"It's nothing to worry about," Baird said harshly. "Just forget about it."

--

_They ran through the house, Marcus having taken out the troika gunner with a well-aimed headshot. Dom followed behind, Lancer ready, trying to stay in the light as much as possible. He could hear the kryll outside, screeching in their own hypnotic way…_

"Yo, Marcus, you read?"

"_I read you loud and clear, Cole. Where's Baird?"_

"In the toilet, man. Listen, we got shakes up here, and the kryll are movin' our way…"

--

Dom blinked, shocked. He sensed that, below him, Marcus had made the connection. "Oh _shit_." Marcus's voice was dripping with disgust. Cole laughed out loud, biting into his fist to muffle the sound. "Fuck it, Baird."

"We can't even open a window," Dom said wistfully.

Baird didn't say a word, and when Dom looked down he noted that he was staring out the windshield, his jaw set. The new-age jazz music played in the background, and Dom actually snorted to himself.

"Baird." Marcus's voice was annoyed. "Turn that shit off."

The jazz music faded into the background, but Dom was sure Marcus had meant something else, too.


	4. Despair

A/N: I'd _really_ appreciate some more comments, guys. I know a lot of people are adding this story to their Favorites—_thank you so much!—_but I'd like some constructive criticism, too :P I don't write humor that often, and **C** was meant to be funny. Just want to know if I scored points with anybody.

**D**

**.despair**

_Marilyn_

Baird ducked beneath the rim of the rig's low walls, a hard jolt on his back plates the only signal that a passing bullet had clipped him. Heart pounding to the tempo in his head, Baird reloaded and peeked out enough to aim and fire. The return salvo was just as swift, and he was forced down again.

"Fuck it," he growled. He blind-fired towards the cemetery below him, and a small, distant part of his mind wondered whether or not the battle was digging up any dead bodies from below. The thought turned his stomach.

Beside him, Cole was working twice as hard. They'd taken out the machine gun minutes ago, but it hadn't diminished the guy's pure, unadulterated massacre of the grubs below. This time he wasn't laughing, and his face was twisted into a grimace of pure concentration.

Baird jammed a finger into his ear to contact their driver. "Yo! Are we setting the Grindlifts or not?!"

"I'm _workin' _on it, pretty boy," their driver, Ted, grumbled. "I'm a bit distracted by all those fuckers flying at my windshield, though, if you get the 'gist of what I'm sayin'."

"Then _hurry up._" Baird didn't shut off the link—it was necessary to maintain contact with their chaperone at all costs—but he _did_ turn down the volume. The man's blue streak resolved into a muted mumble in his ear.

"I'm running low," Tanner stated matter-of-factly.

"Save the ammo, man, we're gonna need it." For the first time since they engaged, Cole spoke, even though Baird could hardly hear him over the firefight.

_Damn, I'm going to go deaf before I die. I need earplugs._

Next to him, somebody swore. "We got Reavers!" Jeff, their sniper, had his scope to the sky, tracking the wingless things with innate accuracy born of playing too many video games when he was a kid.

"What the fuck are you _doing?_" Baird swore. "_Get that thing pointed down there!"_

"Boomers, two o'clock," Trent, their other section sniper, commented. Baird peeked up over the lip of the wall and grunted in his throat. _Fine, if that's how they want it…_

Two Boomers were approaching from behind the graveyards, carrying their Boomshots. The smaller, faster grubs gave them a wide berth, running past them to charge into action. The little scaly things were even using _headstones_ as cover, and that made Baird _mad._ He switched out his Lancer for his pistol, squinting his eyes for a nice shot at one of the bastards…

He pulled the trigger three times, and a fountain of blood burst from a severed carteroid artery. The grub dropped its weapon, clawing at his throat. Maybe the fucker was trying to put all the blood back in, but it had been a lethal shot. Baird didn't even wait for him to bleed out, going on to the next one. He trusted Jeff and Trent to take out the Boomers.

A large shadow passed overhead, and Baird knew without looking that Jeff's Reavers had finally made their appearance. One landed early on JR-60, crushing its occupants with a well-delivered strike of its' jelly-like tentacles. The other continued onwards towards the graveyard, a suicidal mistake if Baird had ever seen one. There was a burst of staccato light from Fenix's rig—Betty—and the thing fell to the ground. A second later, the stomach fluids within mixed with the blood and the minerals in it, and the Reaver seemed to implode from the inside, taking its' driver with it.

Cole focused his fire on the other Reaver alongside Tanner, but the thing just wouldn't fucking _die._ Finally, it bent its' gelatin tentacles and sprung into the air to make a hasty retreat.

Baird returned his attention back to the cemetery, popping off more rounds with his pistol with mediocre results. Jeff and Trent were suddenly firing off their rounds in quick succession to something below him, and he figured out why a moment later.

The screams of approaching mortars launched him into action. He backed up quickly alongside the others, moving away from their original position and taking up cover behind the driver's door underneath the machine gun ramp. The mortars were a hit-and-miss, with only half of them scoring their original target. The shockwave when they hit was devastating, and each of them nearly fell over from the intensity.

Baird found he couldn't hear anymore, nothing except for a faint ringing behind his head. There was a pain in his throat, and when he raised a hand to cup it he realized he was screaming something intelligible at the top of his lungs.

"_TAKE POSITIONS, TAKE POSITIONS!"_ Cole's voice was a faint sound from beneath the ringing, but Baird caught on quick. He ran, slouched over, back to his spot, switching to his Lancer as he did so.

Fortunately, the rest of the Gears began to take a hint. As he aimed and fired, there was already a fountain of blood bursting from the mortar-man's chest. He fell beside the dead Boomers, his body still twitching from the rounds Baird continued to lay into him.

Gradually, sound was starting to come back. "We can't hold out much longer!" Jeff was shouting.

_Okay. I know, I know. Are the Grindlifts ready yet?_

Fuck… if he was going to die here because some Stranded hick was holding him up, he'd haunt the man for the rest of his life and more. He left his position and ran back to the driver's door, hitting the release with his hand.

And paused.

The entire bulletproof windshield had been blown open by the mortars. Glass was embedded in the controls, and Ted was slumped over in his seat. When Baird came closer, crouched down a little to make himself smaller, he could see the blood dripping off the man's pale white ribs.

Baird couldn't stop to think, or to act. He had no idea if they were in the right position or not, because _he wasn't supposed to be doing this. _"Cole, the driver's dead!" he yelled, hoping the bigger man could still hear him through the earpiece. "I'm activating the 'lifts!"

Cole's answer was a grunt. "Do it, baby!"

With absolutely no reverence for the human body, Baird pushed Ted out of the seat, familiarizing himself with the controls. There was a newer, shinier metal control installed on the wall, and Baird read the instructions as fast as he could. There'd obviously been a contingency for this sort of thing, and the instructions were straightforward.

He disengaged the drive locks, activating the lift mechanism. All at once, the entire rig trembled beneath his feet, and he was aware of a new voice inside of his head.

"All teams, dig, dig, dig!" Anya Stroud didn't normally yell, but when she did it caught his attention. "All teams, go!"

"I'm already doing it, princess," Baird muttered to himself.

_Good._ It looked like the controls activated on a time-based computing technology. All he'd have to do was set the pods alight, and they'd take care of themselves in ten seconds. He mentally calculated how long it'd take to get into a pod from his position, and realized he'd have to double-time it.

"Cole, tell them to get ready!"

He activated the last switch and stumbled over Ted's body. He and Tanner took the farthest pod, sprinting for it, and Baird jumped in first.

_I hope this works ,_he thought.

No changing it now. If they died, it'd be _his_ fucking fault, and they didn't give you wineglasses in the afterlife for that.

He pulled the restraints down over his shoulders, but Tanner stayed out longer than he should've, making sure the rest of them got in okay. Just when Baird was about to yell for him, he dropped in and fumbled for the restraints just as the doors slid shut, protecting them from the outside world.

"Oh, fuck," Tanner muttered to himself. He was trying to pull the restraint down, but it wouldn't budge. "No. _No!"_

Baird leaned foreword, arms outstretched to help, but the Lancer in his other arm caught and held him taught. "Just _hang on,_" he said, trying to disguise his own fear. "You _hang on!"_

The lift rumbled underneath them, and even through his helmet, Baird could tell the older man was afraid.

He was, too.

_Fuck, we can't _die. _Don't let us die, don't let us fucking die!_

Gravity pushed him against the roof, against his restraints, and Baird hung on for dear life. He couldn't hear anything but the giant rumbling of metal slicing through earthen dirt and rock, and he closed his eyes against the nausea that was building up inside him. Something slapped him across the face, but he couldn't open his eyes. If he did, he knew he'd vomit.

_Fuck,_ it was like somebody was trying to make his balls come out of his fucking head. He could feel the tears, brought on by the sudden gravity shift, fall _up_ instead of down, burning his eyes…

He didn't know how long the torture lasted, but the COG scientists had said his fall would only take three minutes. He'd taken the prescripted meds before to relieve the headaches and the sudden low altitude sickness that might results. They weren't working. His head was going to _burst, _he knew it.

Then they began to decelerate, and Baird knew something went wrong exactly when it did. The engines flickered and died, and suddenly they were in free fall. They hit something very, very hard, and then everything went black.


	5. Author's Note

So, so sorry for not updating much lately. I'm in the middle of a move, and we're having a bit of trouble ferrying 4 dogs across the country. I'll update soon, I promise, but maybe not until the next few days. I appreciate all the comments with my stories, and thanks so much! I hope I keep getting these comments, and when I come back I'll have some more chapters for you. :)


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